And Lucifer Brought the Light
by Bogwitch
Summary: Post 4.22. The war is about to begin.


**And Lucifer Brought the Light**

It was too late. He was coming.

Light as pain. Light as beauty. Light as darkness opposed. Light so intense it was impossible to see anymore as it burst from column to supernova, gaining intensity as it grew from the spark of the firefly to the blazing heart of a newborn star. Yet this was not a light that offered warmth or comfort, it was cold with the piercing chill of the void. An absolute, this was light in extremity, caught in its purest form, divine and otherworldly; obeying other rules beyond physics or reality, and too refined and too perfect for mortal man to endure.

Still Sam refused to go, to leave before that which was banished walked free again, unable to move or just needing to see what he had wrought. So Dean closed his eyes and covered them as best he could, hoping like hell that through Sam's shocked numbness, he still had the sense to do the same. Overwhelmed and sightless, there was little assistance that Dean could offer if Sam could no longer think for himself. Instead, Dean did all that he could do, clinging to his brother in case the light would somehow swallow Sam whole; like Ruby's lies; like Lilith's plans; like Azazel's toxic blood. He held on, admitting that he needed the contact just as much; a touch of reassurance that ensured that his brother was still there, still human – sort of.

Still Sam.

They were lost. But if Sam went, Dean would too. The light drowned the room, flooding it until they were nowhere; the stone chapel left behind them some where or some when in the weft of place and time. Sam trembled, sobbing maybe, duped, all that he had brought upon the world just too much to bear. Crumpling, Sam could hold on no more and Dean felt him fall, but although Sam's body jerked away as it collapsed, Dean tightly wound the fabric of Sam's jacket into his fingers, re-bunching them in his fist. He would not let Sam go. Would not let Sam break as he had. Not again. Not ever again.

Then it was over. The light was gone… just gone. Replaced with the thready streams of dusty moonlight that meant reality had returned. Hard, gritty stone was back under his hands and knees, scuffing Dean's knuckles and the denim of his jeans. Back on firmer ground, he tried to open his eyes again, but he saw nothing, not even his own hand in front of him; a galaxy worth of light still seared into his retinas. The hard muscle of Sam's chest was still there though, a firm and comfortingly solid anchor, a constant. For a moment Dean indulged in the solace of relief. They had stayed together. For now at least.

Vision cleared and Dean looked up. He couldn't help it, although he feared to see what had been released, he faced it anyway. Lucifer had risen. An angel truly fallen this time, one that hated man, not loved them too much. Even as he dreaded the truth and half expected to see his own darkness reflected back from the eyes of the Lightbringer, Dean wanted to see the face of this devil that he had been chosen to conquer.

To spit in his eye if he dared.

At the centre of the circle Lucifer stood stiff and straight, the blood pooling by his feet streaming and fizzing as it evaporated away. He was tall, delicate and as beautiful as he was terrifying. A statue craved from flesh and bone; emotionless, blank, bittersweet. He stared at the corpses impassively; at Lilith's stolen meat bled out; at Ruby's staring sightlessly into death's abyss; then Sam for a long moment, appraising him with eyes that saw too much, taking all but offering nothing with return.

More than anything right then Dean wanted to pull Sam away, to get in the car and to drive them as far from the cursed chapel as he could. Let the comfort of the road choose the direction of their escape, as if they could ever hope to drive far enough. Lucifer's attention on his brother was sickening, too personal, too… _satisfied_, thankful, but Dean was frozen in place, awed and humbled together, revolted, his body unable to follow his mind's decree to move, to run, to get away.

The fallen angel reached out then and solemnly cupped Sam's face in gentle hands. A soft thumb brushed Sam's tears away and shushed him calm. Sam was his now; his emancipator, his rescuer, his saviour, and when Sam looked up into his beautiful face, he was mesmerised, smitten.

"No," Dean forced out, shaking his brother, all the time his skin crawling, his voice strained from shouting, and with some kind of relief for Sam when Lucifer turned those penetrating eyes away from Sam to fall on him.

It was a stare that Dean could feel reading his tarnished and tattered soul; and for the first time he was an open book, large print even, everything bare and gaping and exposed. He could feel this angel searching inside, scraping out every detail he wanted to know, every forsaken thing that Dean had buried deep inside was unearthed, examined and inspected. He could soon feel how he was found wanting, the loathing clear when he met those hateful eyes. Lucifer hated goodness and humanity and the whiff of righteousness that had crawled away to hide from the horrors of Hell. He hated all of it. He hated Dean. And he knew, knew it was Dean that was charged with finishing this, _him_. And he hated that too.

And then Lucifer smiled, in a knowing way that was not in the least afraid; not of Dean, certainly not of Sam, and Dean wanted more than anything to punch away the approval he saw there and the way Lucifer saw no threat in him at all, but his hand stayed clenched in Sam's jacket. He wouldn't let go, not now, they were together or nothing and Lucifer should know it.

The smile faded. Sam fell back gasping as those slender, elegant hands released him. Lucifer nodded. He had no need of speech, of something as simple as words, his eyes said all he needed to say: until next time.

Lucifer walked away. The war was about to begin.

end


End file.
